


Yellow

by indigo (indigo_angels)



Series: Mission Arc [14]
Category: The A-Team (2010), The A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 00:29:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17908619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigo_angels/pseuds/indigo
Summary: Mission 35 and the team are in Burkina Faso on, what should have been, just another mission. It seems though, that Face has brought something other than a sun tan away with him...





	Yellow

_The majority of persons infected with yellow fever virus have no illness or only mild illness._

Of course no one knew that when Face first started looking peaky, no one even knew what he had, and to be honest they were all just trying to get out of Burkina Faso alive and without incident. The mission had been a tricky one, but fairly tame in its execution and a total success; Hannibal had smiled and Murdock whooped when they heard that the smoke from the destroyed weapons dump had been visible in space. BA hadn’t said much apart from a muttered comment about pollution and Face hadn’t reacted at all. In retrospect, that was odd, Face would have been the one whooping alongside Murdock, doing an impromptu smoke dance or proclaiming himself an explosion god, but instead he’d just leant against a tree and watched, smiling wanly when Hannibal asked if he was okay so they’d picked up their kit and started on the two day hike back into the Ivory Coast.

  

_In persons who develop symptoms, the incubation period (time from infection until illness) is typically 3–6 days._

 

They all had mosquito bites, had done since the day they landed in Africa – it was an impossibility not to have them. Sure, they all put the heavy duty repellent on, the stuff that makes you sneeze it’s that strong, but still, the little fuckers are sneaky and persistent and they like their blood just too damn much.

 

It was Murdock who took the brunt of it. The night he accidentally sprayed one leg twice and the other not at all had him looking like he had Chicken Pox by the time the sun came up. The blood-fest wasn’t just restricted to the hours of darkness either, they were out in force all day long, huge things, their bodies dark with stolen blood, their thin legs and protruding proboscis making them look like the stars of a fifty’s B-movie. They were an irritant that everyone could have easily done without, but Face hadn’t fared any worse than the others.

 

_The initial symptoms include sudden onset of fever, chills, severe headache, back pain, general body aches, nausea, and vomiting, fatigue, and weakness._

 

Not surprisingly it was Hannibal who noticed first. They had around eighteen hours to go, had been making a reasonable pace through miles of scrub after leaving the worst of the bug-infested forests behind them and Hannibal had been watching, had seen Face’s pace drop off a little, watched his t-shirt darken right through with sweat, saw his head drop and when a shaking hand had reached up to rub at his forehead for about the tenth time in two minutes he finally spoke up.

 

“Lieutenant?” They were working after all, this was a job and the getting-out-alive part was a vital aspect of their work. If they’d been at home then Hannibal would have slid a big hand around Face’s neck, would have drawn him close and kissed his temple before asking him what was going on, tried to gauge his temperature and his condition just by being close. That wasn’t an option, their clock was ticking and he needed his team at their professional best. “What’s going on?”

 

But when Face looked up Hannibal's heart sank and he realised that their professional best was quickly slipping away from them. “I dunno,” he was pale but with flushed heat spots on his cheeks, his face was shining in sweat, his eyes creased in pain and Hannibal also noticed the arm clamped across his stomach. “Don’t feel so good.”

 

They all stopped, moving instinctively into the little protection of a gnarled, old baobab, Hannibal and Face clustering together at the trunk whilst Murdock and BA turned outwards, eyes on the bush, eyes on the skies. “Report,” Hannibal could feel their clock ticking in his head, could sense their pursuers picking up their trail – they had precious little time to play with here and if the speed of Face’s response was an indication, he knew it too.

 

A shrug then, “Headache, feel a bit sick,” his eyes, bright with fever flicked Hannibal's way as he forced out a smile, “Guess I must have eaten something a bit off.”

 

Hannibal shook his head, “All we’ve had for days are MREs.”

 

“There you go then.”

 

“Are you injured? Any infected bites? Anything at all?”

 

Face frowned and looked down at his body as if that thought had never occurred to him before, a frown creasing his sweat slicked brow. “No… at least I don’t think so… I wasn’t injured was I?”

 

It wasn’t uncommon for injuries to hide themselves in adrenalin, but the mission was long over and the fact that Face didn’t know just worried Hannibal all the more. He lifted his hand and placed it on Face’s brow, his own creasing in worry as he felt the heat radiating off him. “Okay, we keep moving,” Face nodded, he’d expected nothing less. “Take some Tylenol-”

 

“Had some.”

 

“How many?”

 

Face shrugged again, “Six?”

 

Hannibal rubbed at his own brow this time. “Well keep drinking then. You can take some of our rations-”

 

“Hannibal – no. I-”

 

“It’s an order, Lieutenant,” Hannibal stepped in so that he could stare right into those fever-bright eyes. “We need to be gone from this place already; we can’t afford for you to be compromised. You’re running a fever and you need the water, you’d do it for one of us in a heartbeat, so suck it up, kid. You hear me?”

 

The moment dragged on, there was a familiarly defiant angle to Face’s expression that Hannibal recognised and didn’t like but then it was gone, washed away in a wave of nausea that had Face clutching at the bark of the trunk, his white pallor shifting to almost-green. “Okay,” the word was forced out through thin lips and he moved off, Hannibal, wretched that he could do no more to help, following behind him.

 

The pace slowed considerably after that. They had to stop three times so that Face could empty his stomach in the scrubland, and twice more as he brought up the water that Hannibal still insisted he drank. The vomit had to be buried carefully afterwards – there was a slim chance it could help them to be tracked by hostile soldiers, but a far more likely danger that it would draw some of the many carnivorous residents of the area right to them and a close encounter with a lion was not on anyone’s agenda for the day.  

 

The mood between the four of them was tense, they were all aware that they weren’t making the pace they needed to but it was equally obvious that Face just couldn’t go any faster than he already was.

 

They stopped again as Face caught his breath, hands on his knees, sweat dripping from his nose as the sun dipped towards the horizon at the end of another long day. Hannibal took the enforced stop to pull a think fleece from his pack and tug it on, the evening cooling rapidly with the setting sun, his eyes taking in Face's sweat-dark t-shirt, the patches that ran into his combats and his lips pressed together in concern. At his side, BA dropped to his knees and silently started rifling through Face’s hastily abandoned pack, taking out some of the heavier items to go into his own, passing them to Murdock and Hannibal when the two other man gestured silently at him.

 

“Can you do another hour?” The question was reluctantly posed; Hannibal knew that Face needed to stop for the night right the hell now, knew he needed medical care and rest and proper drugs, but he also knew that, in reality, they needed to keep going, they were riding their luck a little too sharply as it was and time was against them. He couldn’t push Face to the point of collapse though, that much was painfully obvious and so an awkward compromise was needed.

 

Face looked up and Hannibal saw the same dilemma reflected back in those fevered eyes. He waited, no one seemed to be breathing but then Face just sighed and heaved his pack up onto his back – seemingly unaware that it was considerably lighter than it had been – and silently started off down the track once more. The rest of his team exchanged glances, but followed in his wake without comment.

      

_Most persons improve after the initial presentation._

It was a long night with little in the way of conversation passing between the team. BA led for the most part, his eyes on the GPS, his night vision goggles scanning their way forward, Murdock following at the rear, more than aware of the many predators who might just be eyeing them up for their evening meal. This allowed Face to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other and Hannibal to concentrate on watching him carefully, balancing the need to keep going with the determination to protect Face from himself.

 

If anything it got easier though, as the night crawled onwards, Face’s pace picked up a little. Hannibal saw him nibbling cautiously on a Hooah bar as they walked and couldn’t help the relief when it stayed down. By the time that the dawn light was streaking the sky to the east, they were safely back in the Ivory Coast and heading to their RV point.

 

“You feeling better?”

 

Face laughed a little even though he was still paler than he should have been. “Yeah. Told you it was those damn MREs; I’m like a race horse, finely tuned, can’t eat that crap.”

 

Hannibal wasn’t convinced. “You’ve eaten them plenty before without issue.”

 

“Everyone has a limit, boss.”

 

“Yeah?” BA marched past them both as a cloud of dust snaked their way along the road. “And I’ve reached the limit of mine for being out in this bug infested shit hole so stop yammering you two and let’s get going.”

 

Hannibal just shook his head and followed his team towards their ride out.

 

_After a brief remission of hours to a day, roughly 15% of cases progress to develop a more severe form of the disease._

 

“Kid? You awake?”

 

Face was sprawled on his back on the floor of Yamoussoukro airport, his ever present keffiyeh shading his eyes from the brutal strip lights, his head pillowed on his kit bag, arms folded tightly across his chest. For a moment he didn’t move and Hannibal hovered about him, that nagging feeling of concern refusing to abate but then he shifted slightly, something like a moan or a grunt pulled from his lips as he tugged the scarf away from his eyes and blinked up at Hannibal, “Boss?”

 

He was flushed again, but Hannibal knew that could have just been a result of the scarf wrapped around his head and his eyes were red – undeniably disorientated. Hannibal sighed and reached out a hand, “Come on, we’re off. A few more hours and we’ll be back on base.”

 

A few more hours… half a day more likely, but all Hannibal knew is that he would feel a whole lot happier once they were back on American soil and he could keep a proper eye on Face.

 

It was an ancient cargo plane they were heading back in. BA was already strapped into his seat, his eyes closed, the sedatives he wasn’t supposed to be taking doing their job just fine. Murdock was loading gear, his eyes flicking Face’s way as Hannibal led him across the tarmac, a hand on his elbow as he stumbled over his own feet. “I have to say, Face…” Hannibal knew he’d be glad to get out of the baking equatorial heat, “You’re freaking me out a little here.”

 

There was no answer to that and the sheen of sweat clinging to his Lieutenant’s face did nothing to make him feel any better at all.

 

It took half an hour before they were allowed out of their seats again and Hannibal had spent every minute of those thirty watching Face across the empty cargo hold. It was clear he was running a fever once more, his cheeks were flushed, his skin coated in a shining sheen of sweat but his complexion otherwise was worryingly pale. He sat with his head back, eyes closed, fingers gripping the arm rests tightly, his brow creased in obvious discomfort and Hannibal couldn’t get across to him fast enough.

 

“What’s going on, kid?” a big hand found his forehead and his expression only darkened at the heat there. Gently, knowing that there was only Murdock around to witness them, he stroked through the damp curls, lifting them away from Face’s burning skin. Face didn’t open his eyes but he knew Hannibal was there, the older man watched as he licked his dry lips and shifted slightly in his seat, the resulting wince impossible to miss. Hannibal could feel his own heart beating far too hard against his ribs. “Where’s the pain?”

 

He’d expected Face to gesture to his head, it had been his head that had bothered him at they’d trekked through Burkina Faso, but instead a shaking hand lifted from the seat arm and gestured at his abdomen instead.

 

“Hannibal…?” Murdock appeared at his elbow, the single word a whole sentence in itself and Hannibal sighed.

 

“Fever’s back along with some pretty fierce stomach pain.” He turned his attention back to Face. “You want to lie down, kid?” A terse shake of his head was the answer so instead Hannibal pressed the recline button, and with Murdock’s help, they tried to ease Face back a little.

 

It seemed to be the worst thing they could have done though. The chair was old and not reclined regularly and so went back with a jolt that literally had Face grabbing his belly and screaming in pain.

 

“Jesus Christ!” something like panic flared up in Hannibal before he ruthlessly stamped it down again and his hands flew to Face’s shoulders, trying to uncurl him a little, trying to see what the hell was going on that was causing so much distress. “Sit back again, kid, come on, let me see, let me in.”

 

Face wasn’t listening though, he was still hunched forwards, both arms around his midriff, whimpering slightly as he rocked against the pain.

 

“You think it’s his appendix?” the anxiety in Murdock’s voice was audible as he leaned forward and tried to peer into his friend’s face. “You remember how much pain BA was in with his?”

 

Hannibal did – the big guy had been rolling on the floor in agony when they’d found him and it was a sight that he did not want repeating with any of his men. “It could be…” he was still trying to get Face to lift back. “There’s the fever and the sickness and the pain but…” Somehow the headache that had started it all just didn’t seem to fit.

 

“Face,” giving up on trying to get access to the other man’s midriff, Hannibal instead took hold of his face, cupping fevered cheeks in his hands and turning them towards him. “Face, sweetheart,” he knew that, as distressed as Face was, the gentle approach was what was needed this time. “Open your eyes, I need you to look at me and listen a moment while we try and work out how to help you. Okay?”

 

Face didn’t answer, didn’t respond, his eyes were tight lines of pain and so Hannibal tried again.

 

“Look at me. Kid, come on, look at me please.” It took a moment but finally Face’s eyes blinked open and Hannibal’s heart sank at what he saw.   

 

“Jaundice…” Murdock almost breathed the word. “He’s never had problems with his liver before.”

 

It was true but the signs were unmistakable, and now that Hannibal was looking for it, the yellow tinge to Face’s skin was unmissable. “No…” and there were still things that didn’t add up.

 

Face’s lips were pressed tightly together again, his eyes screwed shut but still little sounds of distress were forced out from between his lips with every jolt of the plane. “Is it just your belly that hurts?” Hannibal had to know what else was going on and his concerns were justified when Face tightly shook his head. “Where else then? Your head still?” a quick nod and Hannibal and Murdock shared a glance.

 

“Anything else?”

 

Murdock was brushing sweaty hair back again, trying to get a good look at his friend’s expression and was close enough to hear the strained whisper of, “Everywhere,” and that was enough for Hannibal.

 

“Right, we need to get him on the floor, Murdock. We need to check out what’s really going on.” Face seemed oblivious to them both. “See if you can find something for him to lie on.”

 

There was an old life raft tucked into a back corner, ratty and a bit mildewed but better than the unforgiving floor and so Murdock shoved it into place in front of the single crew seat that Face was curled up in, wadding up a fleece for a pillow and waiting as Hannibal leaned in, a hand in Face’s hair, another on his chin. “Sweetheart?” this was not something that Hannibal was going to relish. “We’re going to have to move you on to the floor.”

 

“No…” the response was pitiful and so unlike their hard-ass team mate but Hannibal just shook his head.

 

“I’m sorry baby, I really am. We’ll be as quick as we can, and gentle too. You ready?” The moment stretched out, Murdock poised to act but neither of them were going to make a move on Face without permission – that wasn’t the kind of thing he tolerated readily.

 

Finally the nod was there, almost imperceptible but there and Hannibal and Murdock swung into action. It wasn’t pretty, again Face cried out in pain as he was shifted forwards but the hands of his teammates were sure and gentle and it was only second before he was laid on his side on the padded raft, his knees drawn up to his belly, his breath fast and shallow as he tried to breathe through the agony. 

 

“Okay, kid, let me see.” Hannibal moved into place, his hands quick and sure as they ran over his distressed Lieutenant, Murdock’s following in their wake, trying to soothe the fires that Hannibal was starting. Eventually he sat back, blowing a long breath out from his lips, one hand resting gently on Face’s tense shoulder, the other rubbing frustratedly through his own hair.

 

“Well?” Murdock’s word was tight with stress.

 

“I don’t know,” and it was a feeling that Hannibal _hated_. “There’s no swelling I can find, no tightness across his belly. It does seem tender across his liver but then he hated his back being pressed as well so it could be his kidneys. I don’t know.”

 

Face still seemed out of it, curled on the floor in front of them both, sweating and shaking, his arms clamped around his stomach, his skin yellow and clammy, little sounds of distress pulled from his lips with every turbulent jolt of the plane. Murdock frowned, his own hands fluttering uselessly in the face of all that pain. “What shall we do?”

 

There was silence for a moment and then Hannibal shook his head. “Try and keep him warm, comfortable, maybe get some water into him… You go and talk to the pilot, see if they can maybe divert somewhere, I’ll stay here and see what I can do.”  

 

_The severe form is characterised by high fever, jaundice, bleeding, and eventually shock and failure of multiple organs._

 

It was a long and arduous flight across the grey expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. There had been nowhere to divert once they hit the sea and Hannibal really would have preferred to get Face back to the States anyway. As the hours passed, however, his condition deteriorated and concern mounted and eventually, after the pilot had come back to see his passenger for himself, a course was set for DC rather than Atlanta and Walter Reid were warned about a patient coming their way.

 

“They think it might be some kind of tropical disease,” Murdock informed Hannibal flatly as he came back from a stint on the radio. “Malaria maybe, something like that.”

 

Hannibal glanced up from where he was smoothing Face’s sweat-soaked skin with a damp cloth, his brow creased. “Can’t be malaria, he’s been taking his tablets every week.”

 

Murdock shrugged, “Sometimes they don’t work.”

 

That was a worry, but at least it would be a reason and the not knowing was threatening to send Hannibal insane. Slowly, Face’s reactions to them had become less and less until, about two hours ago, he’d stopped reacting to them at all, reacting to anything in fact, his body losing all its pain-filled tension as he just lay limply on the mat.

 

Hannibal talked and talked to him and tried not to freak out at the nothing he was getting in return. Every time he took the kid’s pulse it seemed faster and more shallow, every time he listened to his breathing it seemed more laboured and harsher, every time he prised open a shadowed-eye lid the whites of Face’s eyes seemed more and more yellow until the time they’d been washed through in blood instead.

 

“Jesus Christ!” he’d hissed and sprung back as if burned.

 

Murdock was right behind him, his own fingers reaching for Face even as Hannibal sat back on his haunches in shocked silence. “What? Is it worse? Are they-” he ground to a sudden halt, swallowing hard at the unnatural sight that met him before gently letting Face’s eye close and carefully opening his mouth instead. “His gums are bleeding as well,” the dread in his tone was palpable.

 

“What the fuck does that mean?”

 

“It means he’s haemorrhaging, probably bleeding internally as well,” he shook his head, “I need to get back on the radio.”

 

Hannibal didn’t speak, he couldn’t think of anything he could possibly say to that. Instead he just took hold of Face’s limp hand and started praying.     

 

_No specific treatments have been found to benefit patients with yellow fever._

 

As soon as the plane’s engines had been cut, life seemed to morph into a scene from a sci-fi film. Figures in full biohazard suits rolled in through the hastily opened doors, some rushing to Face’s side, some descending on the rest of Hannibal's team and the hapless crew.

 

“What the fuck?” the last thing Hannibal had expected was being almost physically wrenched away from his ailing lover, a thermometer jammed in his mouth and his own bio-suit shoved his way.

 

“Sorry, sir.” The decidedly female voice threw him and helped to temper the desire to strike out that was coiling inside him. “We need to isolate everyone who’s been in contact with Lieutenant Peck, we need to treat this as a possible containment crisis until we know what’s the matter with him.”

 

The words themselves then floored him. Yes, he’d known Face was ill, very ill, but to have all these people here, all these medical experts who were freely admitting that they just didn’t know, they just had to assume it was the very worst… his stomach turned over in fear. He flicked a look over at his unconscious lover as he was being carefully transferred into a containment stretcher, his body lax and limp, totally unaware of anything that was going on around him and something inside him just crumbled, forcing unwelcome tears up into his eyes where they were frantically blinked away.

 

“Okay,” his voice was rough as he took the suit being held out to him. “Just…” he watched forlornly as the stretcher was taken towards the door. “Just look after him, okay?”

  

_Whenever possible, yellow fever patients should be hospitalised for supportive care and close observation._

It was three days before Hannibal and the others were allowed out of their enforced quarantine. Three days when Hannibal had paced and raged and demanded and generally made so much of a nuisance of himself that General Morrison ended up on the phone to him, telling him to settle it all down or the next stop would be a cell. Hannibal tried after that, but only really settled after he was promised a trip to ICU as soon as he was cleared himself.

 

The staff at the hospital were true to their word and Hannibal was led along white corridors by a petite brunette who seemed to be able to walk faster than someone her size should really be able to. As they walked she filled him in on Face’s condition, topping up the information that Hannibal had already been fed as he seethed and stormed in the isolation ward.

 

She spoke quickly, imparting so much information that Hannibal could hardly keep up, speaking of internal haemorrhages, respirators, renal support, possible dialysis… the list went on and on and Hannibal’s lips thinned with every word. They were almost there, the doors of the ICU were right in front of them when nurse finally stopped and turned to meet his eye. “He’s very lucky to be alive to be honest,” she had to tilt her head right back to make eye contact. “If he’d been admitted a few hours later I doubt he’d have made it at all.”

 

Hannibal nodded, “Sometimes I think he’s equally cursed and blessed.”

 

The nurse laughed a little. “I think you could be right. Given how ill he was when he came in he should be dead but considering what he’s got he’s damned unlucky to have needed a hospital at all.”

 

“What he’s got?” this was news to Hannibal, as far as he was aware, there still hadn’t been a diagnosis.

 

“Tests came back this morning,” the nurse told him as she headed for the double doors. “Yellow fever. Transported by mosquitos, it’s almost unheard of in Burkina Faso and most people who do get it only have a few flu-like symptoms and that’s all.” She looked back over her shoulder as she pushed through the doors, “Cursed and blessed, Colonel Smith, just like you said.”  

 

Hannibal was about to make a reply but it was stolen from his throat as he looked up through the heavy double doors and his eyes fell on the bed in front of him. For a moment he couldn’t move, he was rooted to the spot as he stared, his mind – and his heart – reeling as they tried to make sense of what they could see.

 

Yes, Hannibal knew that Face was ill. Yes, he’d listened and understood when the nurse had explained things such as the respirator and the medically induced coma. Yes, he’d seen Face in the belly of that C1-11 looking far from well. But even so the sight of his boy, who only days before had been so fit and healthy, with a tube down his throat, his eyes bruised and shadowed, his skin pale and clammy, wires and tubes and machines almost covering his body… it literally took his breath away.

 

“Sir?” he looked up, saw the nurse watching him carefully and forced his feet to move right into the room, up to the bed and the ten thousand dollars of equipment that was keeping Face alive whilst his body tried to fight off the Yellow Fever.

 

“Wow.” His voice was dry, his hands shaking just a little. “I didn’t expect…” He shook his head, he didn’t expect what? That Face would look so damn close to death still? He already knew that if all the machines were turned off that he’d probably die so what was there to be shocked about?

 

“Remember what I told you,” the nurse had lost her business-like briskness and was now speaking to Hannibal as if he were a traumatised child. “All of this equipment is good. We’re taking the strain off the Lieutenant’s organs, especially his heart. Letting his body concentrate on fighting the infection and nothing else. He’s doing well; his temperature is dropping day by day.”

 

Hannibal knew that as well. Knew that they had been using cooling gel blankets to try and keep him from heating to the point of death.

 

“We’re hoping that he’s not going to need dialysis and the results from his bloods are already so much better, especially his liver function.”

 

Hannibal nodded dumbly, Face had certainly swapped his yellow tinge for deathly white, but the nurse didn’t continue; maybe she’d realised that he’d absorbed just about as much as he possibly could in one session. Instead, she pulled out a chair at the side of the bed and patted it briskly. “Only one visitor per patient please. Stay on the chair and out of the way, there will be times when we’ll have to ask you to leave. Don’t touch anything – if there’re any changes, anything that worries you, press his call button here, okay?”

 

Wrenching his eyes from his boy’s face, Hannibal logged the orange button and nodded bleakly. The nurse sighed a little and her face softened. “Come and sit down, sir, and I’ll bring you a coffee – just don’t expect one every day.” He nodded again and slid heavily into the seat.

 

_Among those who develop severe disease, 20% - 50% may die._

 

“Hannibal.”

 

Hannibal startled awake at the sound of his name, he hadn’t even realised he’d dropped off. His eyes flicked straight to the bed and the previously still and silent man laid there, his heart thundering in hope. It was a foolish hope though, Face hadn’t moved, was just as pale and motionless as before and Hannibal rubbed big hands over his own tired face as he turned to the door and the source of the greeting. “BA. How you doing?”

 

“How’m _I_ doing?” BA shook his head as he approached the bed and looked down at Face’s unmoving form. “That was my line for you.”

 

Busying himself with checking lines and readouts, Hannibal avoided his gaze. “Me? Fine, just fine.” But of course that was a lie – they both knew that he would never be fine until Face was awake once more.

 

“You need to go and rest, man.”

 

“I can rest here.”

 

“No you can’t. You need to go to sleep in a bed. And stay there.”

 

“No,” there was a warning snap in that voice, “I don’t. I need to stay here and wait for Face to wake up.”

 

Silence fell in their little corner of the ICU and Hannibal tried to resist the temptation to reach up and massage his aching head whilst BA was there.

 

“What about Murdock?”

 

They weren’t words that Hannibal was expecting and for a moment he glanced across at his Corporal, wondering if he was missing something. “Murdock?”

 

“Yeah. You don’t think he’d want to see Face? You don’t think it would make him feel better to spend some time in here, talking crap to the man?”

 

Hannibal gave in and rubbed his head – truth was he hadn’t thought about Murdock at all. Or BA. All he’d thought about for three long days and nights was the man in the bed in front of him, the man who refused to wake up despite the fact that he was no longer sedated. “BA…” how could he say this? Why on earth was BA forcing the issue anyway? He damn well knew how important Face was to him. He should damn well know that there would be no way he was leaving this room until the kid showed some signs that he was on the mend. Didn’t he know how ill he still was? “Corporal,” he tried again and stopped when he saw BA’s shoulders square. “I’m sorry about Murdock, I really am, but I’m not leaving here.”

 

“And that’s it?”

 

“It is.”

 

“You want me to send him in so that you can tell him that?”

 

Hannibal's eyes flashed up. “If he’s going to come in for that, he can come in and see Face. Without me leaving.”

 

Ignoring the anger, BA just shrugged. “Not allowed. One to a bed, you know the rules.”

 

“You’re in here though!” Hannibal's patience was being drawn tight like a bow.

 

“Just popping by,” BA remained infuriatingly calm. “Trying to get you to see sense. You know the fool won’t come in here, he hates breaking rules.”

 

“Hates breaking rules?” That was possibly the most ridiculous thing that Hannibal had ever heard said about Murdock. “He does nothing but! Tell me a time when Murdock ever _follows_ the damn rules!”

 

“Not where Face is concerned. Where Face is concerned he wants to do the right thing. Always.”

 

“He can do the right thing,” busy hands smoothed already smooth sheets. “He can do it from outside and wait until the kid wakes up.”

 

“No, he can’t. You want to be the one that send him back to the funny farm, Hannibal?”

 

“ _What?!_ ” Hannibal found himself slowly rising from his seat.

 

“You heard me. That’s what’s gonna happen you know, you keep on keeping him out like this, not letting him see Face himself, not letting him feel like he’s doing something, _anything_ to help. Face don’t belong to you, you know Colonel. And what do you think he’ll say when he wakes up and finds out you’ve driven Murdock over the edge with your possessiveness?”

 

“My _possessiveness_?” Hannibal was on his feet now. “You’d better take a moment here, Corporal and consider just who you’re talking to. A continuation of this will lead to a-”

 

“Guys,” Hannibal was interrupted in his tirade against BA and BA in his efforts to get Hannibal thrown out of the ICU by the voice that drifted up from the bed between them. “Keep the god-damn noise down will you? I’ve got one motherfucker of a hangover… What were we _drinking_ last night?”

 

Hannibal had no answer to that – could only drop back into his seat and stare at the tired looking blue eyes blinking up at him. It wouldn’t have mattered much if he _had_ had some witty and pithy reply to make, however, BA’s laughter would probably have drowned him out completely. 

 

_Treatment is symptomatic. Rest, fluids, and use of pain relievers and medication to reduce fever may relieve symptoms of aching and fever._

“You want me to call a nurse, kid?”

 

Hannibal was hovering awkwardly, his hands, desperate to provide some comfort, were useless as every touch on his sore and fevered skin, his aching and throbbing muscles, just made Face’s whole nightmare even worse.

 

“No,” that voice, usually so melodious and rich was dry and weak, laced with pain and fatigue and every time he heard it Hannibal was torn between incredible relief that Face was still here and frustrated agony that there was nothing he could do to help him. “It’ll pass.”

 

It would – eventually – they both knew that; Face had had enough of these cramps in the five days he’d been awake that they could both learn their pattern well. But whilst they persisted they were nothing short of agony, both for Face to endure, sweating and gasping and writhing on the bed, and for Hannibal to watch, standing there just about as useless as he had ever felt.

 

Time moved on though, as it always did, and eventually the pain started to recede, bit by bit, until Face was still again, his breath short, his entire body drenched in sweat but now, at least, there was something that Hannibal could do. He already had the oxygen mask in his hand, waited until he saw his boy’s exhausted frame slump into the super-soft mattress they’d got him before flicking the flow on and gently placing it over his nose and mouth.

 

The hissing oxygen was all the noise in the room, Hannibal had also learned how Face hated the fuss, couldn’t tolerate the sympathy at this point; that would have to wait until he was feeling far less vulnerable than he was at present. The seconds ticked on into minutes and eventually Face roused himself slightly, one shaking hand reaching up to take the mask from Hannibal, holding it himself, ever desperate for independence.

 

Supressing a sigh, Hannibal moved onto his next task, filling the sink with nice, hot water, grabbing a clean wash cloth and a towel, squirting some fine smelling shower gel into the water and fluffing it all up and then turning back to the bed to find Face watching him.

 

“You don’t have to do that every time,” maybe a little more strength in that voice now, or maybe not – it was hard to tell. 

 

“Does it make you feel better?” Hannibal was carefully squeezing all the excess water from the cloth, watching as he got the shrug he’d been expecting. “Does it make you feel worse?” the frown had also been anticipated and he couldn’t keep the ghost of the smile off his features, his boy – so predictable. “Well, I will then,” he stepped forward, “and even if it only helps the tiniest bit then it’s worth it.”

 

Silently, Hannibal worked from the feet up, eyes and wash cloth flitting over the faint red spots that were all that was left of the mosquito bites that had started this entire nightmare. Absently, he wondered again which one it was that had been from the infected bug, or maybe they’d all been off the same one, maybe that’s why the kid had had it so badly. Unbidden, memories of those awful days, the flight when Hannibal had felt him slipping away, the silent days in ICU when there was nothing in his boy that gave Hannibal any hope that he would ever come back, all those words the medical staff had used, coma, dialysis, seizure, resuscitation… 

 

“Hey…”

 

A croaking voice got his attention, fingers, strong despite everything fastened onto his wrist and he looked up, having to blink a few times before his eyes would focus through the moisture that was swimming there. Face was looking at him, the oxygen mask discarded now, a little bit of colour seeping back after being banished by the pain of the cramps and Hannibal smiled, twisted his hand around so they could lace their fingers together, enjoy a tiny bit of contact in their private room even if Face was still in a military hospital.

 

“I know,” Hannibal forced out a smile. And he did know, knew how Face hated to be ‘useless’, hated to be reminded of what a close call he’d had, hated to think that something he’d done was upsetting Hannibal, hated things not being just the way he wanted them to be. “Not long now, kid,” Hannibal continued on with his washing, looking away as he slid the cloth up and under Face’s gown. “They’ll let you out, maybe tomorrow, the next day,” he let out a smile, a more honest smile than he was used to as he rubbed slightly, “and then I can start looking after you properly…”

 

Face’s eyes slid closed and Hannibal laughed, turning away to refresh the cloth with warm water.

 

In another ten minutes he was done and was surprised to find Face still awake, watching him silently through heavy eyes and he smiled once more, pulling his chair into the side of the bed and taking a waiting hand back in his, lacing their fingers together even as he kept one eye on the door.

 

“I love you, you know…” of course Face knew, but Hannibal realised that he’d never get fed up of telling him.

 

Face’s lips twitched into a smile and the fingers in Hannibal’s squeezed a little. “I love you too. And I’m sorry…” his smiled faded away again.

 

“For what?” Hannibal knew of course, knew exactly how Face’s depreciating mind worked but wanted him to say it, wanted him to see the ridiculousness of it himself. But Face had already drifted off again, his expression so sweet and gentle that Hannibal just had to lean in and kiss him.

 

_In persons who become symptomatic but recover, weakness and fatigue may last several months._

“I can get up the steps myself.”

 

“I know you can, kid. I’m just walking next to you because I like it.”

 

Face sighed and scowled and Hannibal tried not to laugh and, side by side, they walked slowly up the five stone steps together.

 

They were here for a week, although Hannibal would have liked it to be longer, much longer. _“I need you back out there, Hannibal, with or without Peck, I’m not bothered, but I need your team back out there – the jobs are racking up.”_ Morrison’s appraisal of the situation was bleak but Hannibal knew he wasn’t making it up.

 

“There is no team without Face,” was what he’d growled back and Morrison had just shrugged.

 

“Well, you better get the kid on his feet then, Hannibal, ‘cause I need you back, seven days, no more.”

 

He hadn’t shared any of that with Face though, he needed him to concentrate on getting better and nothing else and he knew – if the kid felt the pressure from Morrison on his team – he’d just channel every bit of energy he had into bull-shitting Hannibal as to how well he was and then they’d be in dire straits indeed when he collapsed in the middle of his first op back.

 

“Where’d you get this place again, Hannibal?”

 

They were at the doors now, huge double doors framed in oak and inlaid with coloured glass – they were very striking indeed. “A friend owns it,” an ex-girlfriend actually but he wasn’t going to tell Face that either, the last thing he wanted was to kick off a huge bout of insecurity when the kid wasn’t on his game enough to throw it off again. “And she’s arranged a neighbour to cater for us whilst we’re here – a complete vacation, kid.”

 

That was a coup as far as Hannibal was concerned. He’d never really had to cook an awful lot for himself and so a week trying to produce a varied and nutritious menu for the both of them would be a real challenge.

 

“Yeah?” Face sounded a little breathless as he waited for Hannibal to unlock the door. “Sounds good. Better then eating anything you’ve cooked anyway.”

 

Hannibal let that slide and pushed into the wide hallway, watching Face’s appreciative eye as it swept around the antique tiling and up the curved wooden staircase before being drawn to the huge family room with its warp around sofa and fabulous view of the creek that tumbled right through the garden. The whole scene was washed in golden afternoon light and, with Hannibal's hand still firmly on Face’s elbow, the two men slowly made their way in.

 

“This is great,” and now his boy just sounded exhausted. “Incredible view.”

 

It was and together they sat in the centre of the huge leather sofa, the cushions sinking around them and Hannibal suddenly realised just what a wonderful spot this would be to spend the entire week.

 

They sat in silence for maybe ten minutes, Hannibal content to let Face get his breath back before he offered a coffee or maybe a quick tour around the house but when he finally turned to make the offer, Face was already asleep, his complexion still too pale, his eyes still sunken in shadow and the older man’s heart sank a little.

 

_____

 

“Here you go, kid,” they were on the last day of their vacation and, despite Face’s continued state of exhaustion, they’d had a good week, quiet, relaxing, lots of sleeping, lots of talking. The food had been excellent, even if Face hadn’t eaten much, the bed had been huge and very comfortable, even if they hadn’t used it for what Face had wanted to and the view had been wonderful, that they _had_ made the most of, spending hours on end looking out across the fall scenery, the open fire crackling merrily in the hearth.

 

“Thanks,” Face took the beer that was being offered to him, the only one he’d be allowed that evening and settled back to watch the sun dip down over the tops of the towering pine trees.

 

Face didn’t know it was their last day. Hannibal had managed to fudge the question every time it came up, waiting as he had been to feel more confident in Face’s recovery. That confidence had never arrived though. The kid was still picking at his food, was still looking pale and tired and Hannibal was starting to come to the conclusion that they would have to ship out without him which wasn’t something he was relishing – at all.

 

“What you thinking about, boss?” Face’s quiet voice pulled him back to the present and he turned and smiled, realising that a Face on his game would already know, would have already worked out that this nirvana was coming to an end and they’d have to get back out and join the real world.

 

“Nothing,” he smiled, tried to put as much into it as he could but Face wasn’t so ill that he still couldn’t see a falsity when it was waved right in front of his eyes and his expression fell.

 

“Bad news? We back on? When? This week?”

 

And that almost finished Hannibal off, the bravery, the dedication, the damn irritating self-sacrificing streak that his boy stubbornly held onto through thick and thin… None of it was fair, how could Hannibal leave him here to recuperate on his own? How could he head back and let Face drag himself back out into another tropical hell for the sake of his team and his man when he was so far from being fit? How could Morrison be so pig-headed about it when they usually pulled mission after mission after mission? Leave was a word that rarely came from any of his men.

 

He smiled at Face then, reached out and stroked his cheek, wished he could wipe all that worry and exhaustion away and instead made a decision. “No,” this time his voice was sure and his expression honest. “Not this week, not for a while yet. Not before we’ve had the chance to christen that damn big bed in there.”

 

Face laughed at that, a lovely sound that had been far too long absent. “You’re on, boss,” then he turned his eyes back to the windows and sipped his beer and Hannibal started planning the coming conversation with Morrison in his head.

 

_Those who recover from yellow fever generally have lasting immunity against subsequent infection._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Info on yellow fever from: http://www.cdc.gov/yellowfever/symptoms/


End file.
